


By Flames and Sunrises

by BenevolentErrancy



Series: Nature in Defiance of Nomenclature [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Character, Canon Era, Fluff, M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 03:10:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4288482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenevolentErrancy/pseuds/BenevolentErrancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The revolution has not yet happened. They have time yet to prepare, to work and live and love before the inevitable time comes.</p><p>But this can be a hard thing to remember when the night is dark and you are alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Flames and Sunrises

**Author's Note:**

> Will I ever get tired to writing mindless canon era fluff for these two? Probably not.  
> Will I ever write that fic about them actually getting together in this verse? Who even knows.
> 
> This can be read as a stand alone story with established e/R or else as a part of the rest of this series. Which is basically all stand alone fluff. I am sorry.

Enjolras is breathless; he has been running for a lifetime and is simultaneously exhausted but tireless. He knows he can’t keep going but something drives him, a devil at his back, a promise in his future. As he tries to fill his heaving lungs though they suck up the acrid smoke of Paris as it burns. The streets curve and jerk like a death throe, and it should strike Enjolras as strange because he could have sworn he had just been in the university following its familiar halls, not these streets leading him deeper and deeper in Paris’ ancient, labyrinthine heart, but that wasn’t something he could be bothered about now, not as blood fell around him like rain and fire roared and screams filled the deserted streets.

“Papa!” he screamed, unsure why until he saw the silhouette of the man in the distance through the smoke. “ _Papa!_ ”

“ _Mon chou, reviens-nous, mon chouchou, c’est dangereux._ ”

His father’s voice was smooth and deep, lacking the rasp and cough that had been developing in recent years, but that seemed unimportant because it had also been years since his father had called his _chou_ , or since Enjolras himself had called his father papa. The importance of all this paled in significance to the fact that Enjolras was suddenly, painfully aware that his father was going to die out here in the blood and fire.

“Papa!” he cried again, running all the harder, but the smoky silhouette never seemed to get closer, and the cobbles, torn up like broken bones, hurt his feet which surely should have had shoes on them.

“Papa!”

But it was getting harder to breathe, the stiff, frilled collar of his boyhood was digging into his throat and constricting his laboured breathing all the more. Just when he thought he couldn’t take another step, his foot caught on one jagged paving stone and he fell, landing hard in the filth and the blood that ran down the sides of the buildings, fuelling the flames. Twisting though, he saw it wasn’t a cobble that had caught his foot, but a body, decayed and bloated like the corpses that Combeferre and Joly bought to dissect; in fact they were all around him and the street reeked like his and Combeferre’s apartment had that surprisingly hot spring when Combeferre hadn’t bought enough ice to keep a body from festering as he awaited use of the dissection lab. The one that had tripped Enjolras even had an incision in it, running from pallid collar to groin. A scream rose in Enjolras’ throat and he tried to clamber away from it but something was restricting his movements and the corpse’s eyes stared at him, deep and accusing.

He did this. It was a sudden, bone shaking conviction that seemed so obvious. Enjolras had caused this. He couldn’t remember how but he knew for certain that he had. He had failed and now Paris burned and his father was dead in the smoke and this emotionlessly bisected corpse lay at his feet.

“Combeferre,” Enjolras called, desperate in his increasingly futile attempts to get away from the body. “Combeferre,” Enjolras called, because who else could he turn to other than his guide, one of his dearest friends.

But no, Combeferre was dead. Combeferre had died in the fire and blood with everyone else.

Tears were running down Enjolras’ face now as he suddenly recalled his friends’ deaths. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, Joly and Bossuet, Bahorel, Feuilly, Jehan, _Grantaire_ –

His sobs ripped through his chest, surely breaking bones, breaking him apart; his friends were dead, Paris was dying, and it was his fault, his fault, he hadn’t worked hard enough, hadn’t understood enough, hadn’t acted soon enough, surely enough, oh God, oh Lord, mercy, _mercy_ –

Enjolras woke, tangled in his sheets and covered in sweat.

“Combeferre?” he croaked, kicking desperately at the blankets, but only succeeding in accidentally tipping himself off his bed.

The air was clear, or as clear as it could be rising from the muck of Parisian streets, but they were streets made mild by a fresh, night-time chill, not choked with death and smoke. It was still, silent except for the settling of the building, and the distant rumble of a fiacre on the smooth, whole street. Still, the moment Enjolras had relieved himself of his bedclothes he stumbled to the window and threw it open, half throwing himself out in the process.

The only evidence of fire came from the silent, snaking trails from chimneys that dotted the dark horizon.

It was well. All was well.

The revolution had not yet occurred.

Shaking hard, Enjolras stumbled back from the window and sat heavily on his stripped bed, fists clenched in his nightshirt. He was well aware of the risks of what he and his companions were aiming for, well aware that the horror of his dream could easily be a reality, well aware that it was still necessary, that he was willing to lay himself down as a tinder for the cleansing flames that his homeland awaited, and yet the dreams… the dreams still shook him to his core.

The cool wind whispering in from the open window eased Enjolras’ shaking breaths but it also caused his sweat to chill and prickle on his skin; it was sobering, but it only for the outlandish elements of the nightmare, not its essence. Yet unsettled, he stood and paced across the room to the water pitcher he had brought in with him that evening while he was studying, pouring himself a glass to try to steady himself.

But what seemed like a grim reality while discussed by studious candlelight in the Musain – a terror but one that could be, must be, braved – became an unbearable horror by night. The thought of Combeferre’s, or Grantaire’s, or any of his friends’ faces transposed onto the bloated, rotting faces of those corpses was one that made Enjolras’ nerves tremble.

You’re being childish, he tried to chide himself. Unreasonable.

Finishing his water, he returned the cup to his desk with a decisive _clack_ , and started to straighten his cast aside sheets. He would go to sleep and put this mess behind him; he was a grown man and could be expected to sleep calmly in his own bed, for Christ’s sake.

Sleep returned quickly; his studies had been heavy recently, and the pressing work of Les Amis left him with little time as it was, so now that he allowed his body rest it eagerly took advantage. No sooner had consciousness ebbed away though than flames came to fill the gap. Oppressive heat, the stink, lost and alone, misleading streets, and suddenly Grantaire’s body, draped backwards out a window, tangled in a bloody, red flag and mouth slack, Grantaire–

Enjolras awoke again with a cry on his lips and desperate tears pricking his eyes as the sweat did his brow.

Cursing internally, he pressed his hands to his mouth, bidding himself to be calm, to be silent, for his stomach to settle.

 _Oh God in Heaven, his face_. The eyes, a flat white, the cheeks slack, the hair matted with viscera, hands drooped down like the lifeless flag, never again to touch Enjolras, brush his hair or hold his hand in the safety of their homes, never again to prod or poke or caress…

Enjolras ground the heels of his palms against his eyes. This was ridiculous and he would risk waking Combeferre if he continued in this vein. Ignoring the faint tremor that still shook his fingers, Enjolras traded his nightshirt from a proper shirt, coat, and trousers, and let his feet carry him out of his rooms, down the building’s steps, and out into the night. He wasn’t sure where he was going, only that he needed to go, that his bed held no rest for him.

-

Grantaire stared blearily up at his gabled ceiling and regretted being awake at such an hour. He wasn’t even sure what the hour was but he had spent the last couple days awake in a haze of drink, hashish, and paint fumes and he had dropped into his bed with relief early that evening. That being said, it was not yet noon – in fact he doubted it was even midnight yet – and so Grantaire really did not want to be staring at his ceiling right now.

Nor did he want to be hearing a knock on his door, the harold to this unwelcome wakefulness, which succeeded in the difficult task of being both timid and insistent. Knowing only one woman capable of such a feat, Grantaire heaved himself out of his bed’s loving embrace and pulled on a pair of trousers he could shove the tails of his nightshirt into before opening the door to his distressed looking landlady.

“Mme Sauvageot,” he greeted.

“M. Grantaire, thank goodness you’re in!” exclaimed she, wringing her hands. “Only I don’t know what we would do if you were out this evening!”

“I live only to please, your need was surely what steered my unsteady steps home this evening. What’s amiss?” What’s amiss _now_ he did not say, for if it wasn’t one thing with this anxious woman it was another. She was a gentle soul, made generous allowance on rent, and would occasionally welcome Grantaire to her table so he liked her well enough, but her nerves were perpetually peaked over some trivial – or occasionally completely imaginary – matter. “And… is it not something that could possibly be amiss later in the day? Perhaps after mass has already let out?”

“Ooh, M. Grantaire, there is a man!”

“Ah! Yes, I see your concern, the blackguards can’t be trusted a lick! I say do away with the lot of them!”

“You are a terrible man, M. Grantaire,” the woman wailed, and Grantaire’s mood softened.

He helped guide her to a low bench at the end of the landing and took her hands in his. “My apologies, madam. Please, do tell me of this man.”

“I was sitting up with Antoine, as his joints have been bothering him terribly this evening, when I saw him! A man at the end of the street, and he has been out there a good half an hour at the least for I noticed him before the hour struck and he is there still! He has paced back and forth before the house continuously, glancing at the windows and lingering before retreating again, only to stalk back! M. Grantaire, I fear he is some terrible villain come to do us in once we have the lights out! I wish I could see him put straight without disturbing your evening, but I would be quite overcome if I tried to confront him and Antoine couldn’t possible, not with his hip as it is, and I couldn't bother the Duforts in the backrooms, not with M. Dufort out of the city and Mme Dufort all on her own…”

“It cannot be helped then; let us have a look,” said Grantaire.

Grantaire allowed himself to be lead to the front room of the house, his landlord’s sitting room where he and his wife spent most of their day, watching all the little dramas only a Parisian street and one’s neighbours can offer from their seats. M. Sauvageot sat in his customary chair, puffing on his pipe and reading next to a candle with a large and presumably medicinal glass of wine at his elbow. It wasn’t immediately obvious if M. Sauvageot was even aware that his wife was in distress, but that was likewise customary for the fellow – after a lifetime married to such a woman Grantaire supposed one must become resistant eventually. So Grantaire walked past him and pushed the curtains aside, wholly expecting to see an empty street, suspecting that Mme Sauvageot had simply gotten herself into a tizzy over a factory worker returning home from a late-shift, or some gamin having the run of the sleeping city.

Instead he saw a dark figure pacing back and forth under a street lamp, light cast at such an angle that it left him as little more than a stark shadow. The man was clearly agitated and his head was entirely bare of any sort of hat; he certainly looked the part of a scoundrel, especially if he had been lurking out there as long as Mme Sauvageot believed.

“What shall we do, M. Grantaire?” quavered Mme Sauvageot.

Grantaire scratched at his rough cheek and contemplated the figure. It had walked away from the light of the lamp and was now leaning against a wall near the mouth of a dark alley. It was hard to tell without the light to contrast him, but the man appeared to have his head in his hands, tugging at his hair – he looked perfectly deranged. Truthfully, Grantaire rather liked the idea of returning to bed, pretending he’d seen nothing, and dealing with whatever consequences came of it when they came, hopefully after at least few more hours of sleep. He would risk being gutted in his bed if it meant not confronting some villain at such an unspeakable hour after much too little sleep. But he was not quite so keen on risking anyone else. He would feel horrible guilty if something were to befall the Sauvageots or any of their neighbours, for all he had but a passing acquaintance with most of them, and there was nothing worse than drinking with the taste of guilt in one’s mouth. So he excused himself and returned to his rooms, where he collected his singlestick and pulled a coat on over his nightshirt and shoes on his stockingless feet.

“Oh, don’t you look a true hero! So dashing!” said Mme Sauvageot when Grantaire returned, making him snort in amusement. “Do be careful!” she called when he pulled open the door and stepped out into the night.

-

Enjolras wasn’t sure when he realized where his feet were leading him but he had a sneaking suspicion that it had been from the moment he’d chosen to leave his building. Now though he found himself pacing back on the dark street outside of Grantaire’s building, grappling with himself in debate.

He should, he knew, go home. He was being ridiculous; there was no reason for him to go and disturb Grantaire’s rest or that of his landlords just because he had had an unsettling dream. What was he, a child? The last time he could recall waking another due to night-terrors it had been his nanny, while he had still been in skirts. And yet, despite this, the idea of returning to his bed and closing his eyes, of returning to the darkness and fire which he could feel lurking even now at the back of his mind, waiting for him to lower his guard, was intolerable.

A candle still burnt in the lower window of the building but the rest of the house was dark, including the second floor where he knew Grantaire’s rooms were located. And Enjolras had no key; to be granted entry he may very well have to risk waking Grantaire’s landlord, or porter if his building possessed such a thing, and what explanation could he give for turning up at such an hour? Men did not tend to make a habit of turning up at their friend’s in the dead of night; when people met at such an hour it was usually to instigate some depravity or another, be it criminal or more… sensual.

With a soft curse to himself Enjolras turned on his heel and again paced away from the building. And it may not only be his landlords Enjolras would risk giving that impression to. What would Grantaire think if Enjolras turned up at his home in the middle of the night, seeking solace in his bed? Despite the discussions they have had on the matter, would paltry words stand up to the tide of action? Was it not said that actions spoke louder than words, and if that was the case what were his actions saying?

Standing in the deepest shadows of the street, Enjorlas made his reluctant decision. He would have to return the way he had come; he couldn’t simply turn up without explanation or discussion beforehand, especially if he came with nothing to offer. It was a cruelty and a presumption. Choice made, Enjolras was about to turn and return home when a voice behind him gave a harsh call.

“Ho! What are you doing skulking, monsieur?”

Enjolras spun in time to see a sword raised above him and jerked back with a cry, falling back hard with his hands flung defensively in front of his face and unable to catch himself.

“ _Enjolras?_ ”

“Grantaire?” Enjolras gasped, lowering his arms as the shadowy shape lowered his, weapon dropping to his side, no longer raised to take Enjolras’ head off.

“Sweet Christ in Heaven what are you _doing_ here, Enjolras? You gave my landlady a turn, and she in turn gave me one. A man is not made to feel such strong emotions so late, and you _know_ I prefer to avoid them entirely if given the chance to coast of mildness and stagnation, you fiend. She was certain you were here to mischief with the way you were stalking about like a blackguard. Then again you may be yet, I haven’t slept through the revolution have I? You haven’t brought a king-slaying mob to my stoop, have you?”

He spoke lightly, humour in his tone, and he reached down to help Enjolras back to his feet, so Enjolras knew he at least wasn’t angry for the intrusion.

“Are you alright?” he added, when Enjolras winced at the stinging pain that shot up his back from his hard landing on the street.

“Well enough. Were you going to stab me?”

“Well…” Grantaire said, passing Enjolras the weapon. Enjolras was surprised to find that it wasn’t, in fact, a sword as it had first appeared, but a mock of one, heavy but made of wood. “Not with that at least. Now, I’m assuming you aren’t simply here for the scenery outside my home – would you like to come in?”

“If it… isn’t any trouble, then yes,” said Enjolras awkwardly.

Grantaire just laughed. “Believe it or not, it may have been even less trouble if you had simply chosen to knock rather than sending the house into a tizzy. Still, come along. I’ll introduce Mme Sauvageot to her villain.”

Thus Enjolras was led out of the dark into the warmth of the building and made to shake hands and apologize to an older couple, who simply seemed relieved that he wouldn’t be trying to stab them in their sleep and who made no objection when Grantaire then gestured for Enjolras to follow him up to his rooms.

“So,” said Grantaire when his door was once again barred and they were both sat on his settee, “if not revolution and not criminal intent, what brings you to my humble – ha, very humble – rooms at such an hour? Would you care for a coffee?”

“Ah, no, I’m not actually keen on being awake right now, but thank you.”

“Then that makes two of us. A nightcap then?”

Enjolras grimaced but accepted.

Grantaire gave an amused laugh as he went to fetch a bottle of brandy. “So this is what it takes to break your temperance. Though I would argue that if you simply desired alcohol there are easier places to seek it than my rooms – though perhaps without the wild factor of never quite knowing what drink I might be able to find at a given time.”

Taking the offered cup with a sigh, Enjolras explained, “This... actually wasn’t why I came. Not exactly. I was... having troubles sleeping, and did not want to risk rousing Combeferre.”

“And so you rouse me. I’m touched.” And, to Enjolras’ surprise, he indeed look touched, despite the sarcasm in his voice.

“Sorry,” he said regardless, because he couldn’t possibly imagine why Grantaire would be _grateful_ about being woken in the middle of the night.

Grantaire waved the apology off. “Think nothing of it. Now, how might I assist, since I assume it is my assistance you seek. I have been told my speech has quite the soporific quality, a perfect blend of length and content to kill even the most eager mind.”

“That isn’t... precisely the problem. Ugh, you’ll think I sound ridiculous.”

“A few minutes ago we were both in the streets, half-dressed, with me brandishing a singlestick and with your noble ass sat in the mud. If you can beat the ridiculousness of that particular tableau I will be truly impressed.”

“Yes, alright, excuse me if I feel like I’ve filled my quota of ’ridiculous’ for the evening.”

“Nonsense! If we are ever to be on equal footing in that field you’ll have to work much harder, for I have had a significant head-start – I’ve been working on my state of ridiculousness for years! I must insist you admit to whatever foolishness has brought you here so we may be more at level! Step down from your pedestal, O Zeus, share with us mortals your personal failings, we hunger for them! ...Or, if you shall not step down, I shall pull you down myself.”

Enjolras’ eyes narrowed but he got up and scurried back when he saw Grantaire approaching him, hands spread wide.

“Don’t you dare...” he warned, and then lunged behind the settee when Grantaire made a grab at him. “Grantaire, be serious–”

“Perish the thought! This is my own home and I make a note to never allow a wit of seriousness to cross my threshold!”

Grantaire leapt onto the back of the settee, creeping closer as Enjolras backed up, trying to decide which way to run.

“You are behaving like a child!”

“Will you come try to rap my knuckles then? Come along, have a go at it.”

Enjolras knew better than to trust that smile on Grantaire’s face though, and he took that opportunity to make a dash around the side of the settee. Regrettably though, Enjolras was a student who spent much of his time at a desk and didn’t have the speed or reflexes of Grantaire, who snatched him up immediately and dragged him backwards onto the settee, crowing his victory as Enjolras shouted his own outrage.

“You wouldn’t dare, your landlords are just below us a-aa-and aa-AAHA–”

Enjolras’ objection was immediately dissolved into shrieks (and, more accurately, laughter, though he was loathed to admit it) as Grantaire grappled him into his lap and dug his fingers into his ribs. Enjolras writhed but was unable to break free, howling with laughter and doing his damnedest to jab his elbow blindly back into some exposed bit of Grantaire. This had all been a rather accidental discovery on Grantaire’s part, who had simply been trying to coax Enjolras from his desk one day to join him for a late lunch, making comment about how he could fairly see Enjolras’ ribs through his waistcoat... and had made the arguably poor (or marvellous, depending on the side of the discussion you sit) choice to prod at said ribs to prove his point. The result had been Enjolras nearly leaping out of his chair and spilling his ink across the desk. Grantaire now made a point of abusing this piece of knowledge at his every opportunity.

“So, will you reveal your secrets, Republican scum?”

“N-never! Be gone! G-Gran-Gran _taire_ , do _stop_ \- _ahha ha!_ Yes! Yes, fine, I concede!”

Finally Grantaire’s fingers stilled, arms coming instead to encircle Enjolras and pull him close so, gasping breathlessly and flushed, he could collapse bonelessly against Grantaire’s chest.

“You’re a menace,” huffed Enjolras.

“Most assuredly,” agreed Grantaire, rubbing his rough cheek against Enjolras’ neck, pressing kisses along it. “Now, you’re agreement?”

“Fine. I was plagued by nightmares. Dreams of the revolution gone badly, of you... you and our friends dead. Paris burning.” Enjolras exhaled loudly, with the pretence of still catching his breath. “I couldn’t banish it from my mind and I thought... I thought to come here. I have no better explanation, I realize it was rather foolish but at the time... it seemed to make the most sense, while I was still half-asleep and unreasonably distressed.”

For a long moment, Grantaire was silent, and if it wasn’t for the even puffs of breath against his neck Enjolras may have been worried that he had fallen asleep. Eventually he said, with some levity, “So you tell me you’ve come all this way to _cuddle_ ? Enjolras, the marble statue, needing a bedtime hug? This is _wonderful_ , if I could tell Lesgles he would never believe me!”

“Do _not_ mock me, Grantaire...”

“Never,” said Grantaire, and it was with such unexpected sincerity that Enjolras took pause.

When Enjolras said nothing, Grantaire continued: “Truly, I am honoured, Enjolras. And more than eager to offer the comfort you have very carefully not asked for. Shall we retire to my bed and make an evening of it?” Grantaire must have felt Enjolras tense slightly at those words because what he said next was tinged with a quiet hurt. “I offer only sleep and the dubious comfort of my arms, Enjolras. You do not truly think I would suggest more, do you?”

“No,” Enjolras lied hurriedly. And after a moment, “I would appreciate that though, Grantaire. Thank you.”

“It is, very sincerely, my pleasure. Come, the bed is small but likely more comfortable than the settee in any case.”

It took several minutes after that for Grantaire to clear the clutter from his bed, during which time Enjolras borrowed one of Grantaire’s nightshirts to replace his street clothes – it was comically baggy on him but the pleased smile on Grantaire’s face when he saw him in it made up for the laughter that followed. After that it was simply a matter of Grantaire discarding his trousers and blowing out his candle before the two of them sank into the bed, shifting about awkwardly until they found a comfortable position, though each little movement made Enjolras’ heart pound, in not an entirely unpleasant way. While Enjolras had spent plenty of time by now physically close to Grantaire, sitting with him, even on top of him, pressed against him, wrapped up in hugs, this was a type of intimacy that seemed wholly new. The vulnerability of it was a little unnerving, with only thin nightshirts to separate their bodies, and their legs and feet constantly shifting against each other’s, yet there was nothing inherently sexual about it, nothing that would normally make Enjolras baulk at the idea of sharing a bed with someone.

The position they had settled on had Grantaire’s front pressed to Enjolras’ back, curling around him like a protective hand cupping a candle flame from the wind. No, while that encompassed the warmth and security of the position, it neglected the closeness – perhaps more like to pages of a book, lain together. Enjolras found he rather liked that notion, two different sheets of the same story, tucked up between covers. He had no doubt that Jehan would have been able to provoke a more poetic image, but, as Grantaire had mentioned, this was a moment that would never be allowed to exist beyond themselves. Love poetry was not for the likes of them, though Enjolras was surprised by how he was increasingly wishing that it could be.

His thoughts drifted after that, sleep creeping in as he sank further back against the gently shifting chest behind him. Before he could truly fall asleep though, Grantaire's voice, barely above a whisper but still unsettling loud in the darkness, broke the silence.

“You know, it might not be a dream. Not for long. Not if you continue on your current path.”

Enjolras stared out at the dark room and the vague shapes that filled it. “Then so it shall be,” he said, with a much finality as he could manage. He was not in the mood to have this discussion with Grantaire.

“You could die,” Grantaire continued, regardless.

“Quite possibly,” said Enjolras.

“And our friends.”

“They know the risks. The dream was upsetting Grantaire, but it existed as only a darkness in the night, it was only fire and the blood, it had no hope. But this, this is no dream. The morning will come, and the fires will bank, and from the ashes freedom shall spring. Is that not worth every risk?”

“Or nothing will come of it and you shall all simply be dead,” said Grantaire bitterly.

“When the time comes, the people will rise. For every man that falls, another will fill his place – the people cannot be silenced, liberty cannot be ignored.”

“I would give my right hand for your conviction,” said Grantaire, voice soft and almost lost in the darkness once again.

“Perhaps conviction will come once you see the bright future become the liveable present. Even if it takes until then... that would still be enough.”

Grantaire gave a harsh laugh at that, the softness gone entirely. “And if I die along side the rest of you, in the fire of this supposed change?”

Enjolras longed to turn, to face Grantaire directly, but Grantaire’s arm across him was warm and heavy, and a part of him, the part still unsettled by the night-terrors, was afraid of what he would see if he looked. “You would not be there, surely. You hold no belief in our cause.”

“I would be wherever you would have me.”

Enjolras throat tightened; he stared out into the blackness. “I would not ask that of you,” he said as best he could around the emotions that had suddenly filled his throat. “We will force no one behind our lines, we ask only for the willing.”

“For you, I would be.”

There was nothing Enjolras could say to such a statement, so instead he wrapped his hands around the one of Grantaire that was draped over his front and held on as tightly as he could, trying to fill it with all the feelings he had but had no words for. Was he to be grateful at such a proclamation? Scared? Honoured? Offended? He felt it all, felt so much it was dizzying, but it mixed into a deep, undeniable affection. Perhaps at some point he would have to parse the intricacies of that feeling, speak to Grantaire about it all, but for now, so late and so tired as he was, he would simply cling to that affection.

“If we don’t go to sleep quickly it will soon be morning,” Grantaire murmured into his neck.

“There are worse fates,” said Enjolras into the darkness. “Sunrise is beautiful.”

“Mm. One night, we shall have to stay awake straight through til morning. I should like to see the early morning light in your hair.”

“It will be beautiful,” Enjolras agreed vaguely, sleep dragging at him.

With Grantaire's arm around him, his breath on his neck, and the heat of his body pressed up against his back, when Enjolras did fall asleep there were no nightmares.


End file.
